


Anything But That Song (AKA: Every Breath You Take)

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Frustration, M/M, Sherlock's Violin, The Police - Freeform, every breath you take, the actual band, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets sick and tired of Sherlock's non-stop playing of his violin and in a fit he asks if Sherlock knows anything written in the last hundred years. John is not pleased with Sherlock's answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything But That Song (AKA: Every Breath You Take)

It’s been over a week since Sherlock’s last case.

To be precise it’s been eight days, twelve hours and forty two minutes since Sherlock solved their last case and it has been exactly three days and forty two minutes since John had come home to anything resembling silence. Sherlock has gone through all the whole range of emotions through the “majesty of music”, flitting from Beethoven to Tchaikovsky to Chopin. If he had to hear one more rendition of bloody Pachelbel’s canon he was gonna go stark, raving mad.

John had been trying to do a write up of their latest case for the better part of the morning when he heard the beginning bars of another round of Pachelbel. _No. Bloody hell no, enough!_

He stomped down the stairs to burst into the living room with enough force to momentarily snap Sherlock out of musician-mode. The strings of the violin screeched as Sherlock’s distracted hand dragged the bow across them while the detective spun from the window to see John’s frustrated scowl.

“Ah, good morning John.” Sherlock, regaining composure, replaced the violin under his chin and began where he left off.

“Absolutely not a good morning!”

Sherlock stilled his hand and huffed and turned around to face John again. “What?” Underneath his eyes were dark, fifty shades of purple and gray one might say, his hair a wreck, and he was dressed in the same dressing gown and pajamas he had donned three days prior. John was certain he hadn’t showered or eaten anything more than tea and a few biscuits in all that time.

“What’s the matter?” He reiterated, his tired looking face studying John’s irate one.

“Can’t you deduce my problem?” John crossed his arms and strode across the room, stopping only a few feet from the man. He gestured to the door and swept his hand across the room, “Can’t you deduce why I just stormed down here?”

Sherlock thought a moment and used the tip of his bow to scratch the back of his head. “I suppose it’s because of my playing all morning.”

“No.” Sherlock eyed him in confusion. “It’s because of your playing for the last three bloody days and you’ve played every song I’ve heard you play before at least five times and if you play bloody Pachelbel’s bloody canon one more bloody time I’ll forcibly remove the violin into Mycroft’s care until you find a new case!”

Sherlock pouted and put the violin back on his shoulder. His fingers drummed on the neck of the violin nervously. “What do you suggest then?”

“Anything!” John ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Take a shower. Read the paper. Watch telly. Eat something. Or, for the love of God go to sleep.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You must be exhausted.”

Sherlock sniffed in defiance. “Sleep is for the weak, John.”

He held his violinist’s pose for a while longer, staring out the window before whining, “Jooohn! I’m so boooored!”

“Then go to sleep.”

John watched as Sherlock flopped down into his chair, one leg sprawled over the arm and the other stretched out straight, and cradled the violin to his chest. “Can’t. Too much data floating around and none of it interesting or useful. The music is the only thing that’s helping.”

“Then why don’t you learn something new,” John countered. _What a treat that would be,_ he mused, _hearing Sherlock Holmes plucking away at a new piece and probably sounding like a child at band practice._ Would be a nice reprieve from the recycled music he’d been forced to listen to while he was home. “Why don’t you learn something written in this century, hmm?” He walked over to the chair and peered at Sherlock’s brooding face. “Do you know how to play anything written in the last hundred years?”

Sherlock grimaced for a fraction of a second before breaking out into a scary grin. John knew that grin. Was intimately familiar with that flash of teeth, that particular twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh no. That smile is never a good sign.”

Sherlock practically leapt out of his chair and put the violin to his chin. “But John, you said you wanted to hear me play something.”

“No I don’t.” John put up his hands and backed away. Whatever Sherlock had in mind John was definitely not game.

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings and pulled from them the notes from one of the worst songs to ever escape the 1980’s….Every Breath You Take by The Police. _No… Lord give him Pachelbel, “Take on me”, anything but that song._

“Of course you would know that song!” John tried to escape back up the stairs to his room but Sherlock ran ahead of him and blocked his path, rather impressive considering he never missed a note while doing so and playing.

“Oh come on John,” He took a step forward, forcing John backward. “It’s a classic.” His eyes were manic with pure delight at the prospect of torturing his flatmate.

“It’s creepy is what it is Sherlock! Stop smiling like that, you’re making it worse!”

Sherlock chased him around the chairs, past the fireplace, “Worse or better?”

John tried to flee and exit the flat but Sherlock cut him off at the kitchen. John stalked through the kitchen while Sherlock followed in the hallway, playing all the while. John made it to the loo and slammed the door shut. But nothing could block out the sounds of the creepiest song ever written. “Sherlock,” John bellowed, “I swear to god the second you run out of steam and fall asleep I am going to hide that violin!” Sherlock just played till the final note of the song.

When the notes died all John could hear was Sherlock hysterically giggling. John opened the door and saw that Sherlock had sunk to the floor with his back against the wall and giggling like he was drunk. “Are you done,” John asked, fighting off giggles of his own at the sight of his flatmate’s reddened face, streaked with tears of laughter. When he got no answer he decided that that was quite enough of the music, thankyouverymuch, and he snatched the violin from Sherlock’s limp fingers.

While Sherlock was still cackling John went back to the living room and deposited the violin back in its case after loosening the strings. He came back to the hallway where Sherlock’s sounds were reduced to pathetic chuckles and hiccuping. He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at John. “I think I’m a little slap happy, John.”

“You think?” John stood over him, arms crossed like a disappointed parent. “Are you ready for bed now? Now that you’ve tortured me.”

Sherlock made a slapping gesture at the air, suggesting John was crazy and he certainly was not tired, before letting his arm fall and his head lolled towards his bedroom. He didn’t have to say it. He was done. _About bloody time._

John hoisted Sherlock off the floor and threw an arm over his shoulder. He half walked, half dragged Sherlock the few feet into his room and unceremoniously dropped him into bed. After tucking his legs under the covers he muttered, “When you wake up you better take a shower. Smelled men after a ten day patrol stretch in Afghanistan who smell better than you.”

“Piss off,” Sherlock muttered sleepily from his pillow.

“Right. If you need anything I’ll be just outside in the living room.”

“Why would I need you.”

John rolled his eyes as he closed the door. “No reason at all.” With Sherlock safely squirrelled away in his room and sleepy John could finally work on updating his blog.

In blessed silence.


End file.
